


A Wayward Journey

by Chifuyu



Category: David Copperfield (2000), Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, The Salvation (2014)
Genre: All the western clichés, David is an absolute gem, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hannibal Extended Universe, He gets shot a lot, It's all very soft and tender, Jon had better days, Jon is stubborn, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Rare Pairings, So much fluff it hurts actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 13:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13342632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chifuyu/pseuds/Chifuyu
Summary: Jon had seen men like David Copperfield: British aristocrats who thought America was nothing but an exotic playground and its inhabitants curious but ultimately savage beings, more animal than man. They’d stay in Little Edge for a week or two, just long enough to grow tired of the dirt and grime, the sandstorms and murky water, the weather-beaten faces of the settlers and then leave again.If anybody had told him that he'd soon take a bullet for the boy not only once but twice, Jon would have called them a delusional fool.





	A Wayward Journey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haanigram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haanigram/gifts).



> This is for the lovely Breanna, who has been nothing but patient and supportive while she was waiting for me to get my lazy ass into gear and write this.  
> It escalated a bit, what was supposed to be a 5k words fic is now 15k words long but these two just wouldn't shut up.  
> A big fat thank you also to my beta reader [Supastag](http://archiveofourown.org/users/findo), who, as always, has been merciless and made sure that this fic is readable. Thank you, hun!

Jon had seen men like him before: British aristocrats who thought America was nothing but an exotic playground and its inhabitants curious but ultimately savage beings, more animal than man. They’d stay in Little Edge for a week or two, just long enough to grow tired of the dirt and grime, the sandstorms and murky water, the weather-beaten faces of the settlers and their tobacco stained teeth and then they would board a ship back to New Orleans and home again. Content to have new tales to tell their envious peers but ultimately indifferent to the fate of the people and land they had left behind. For them it was nothing but an amusing anecdote written in expensive ink in their diaries and letters.

The boy—Jon could hardly call him a man with his soft hair and round cheeks—had arrived a fortnight ago with one of the stagecoaches that stopped in the village from time to time. He had been there that day, waiting for a client who had requested to be picked up and escorted to the saloon.

The boy's face had been sickly pale but his eyes were gleaming with excitement as he set foot onto the dry soil.

Fool, Jon had thought as he shouldered a leather-bound suitcase. There was nothing here that warranted or deserved a look of such adoration and the boy would learn it, sooner rather than later if the leering glares of the scoundrels and pickpockets loitering in the dingy alleys were anything to go by. It was none of Jon's concern though and he left without looking back.

He hadn't expected to ever see him again. All the greater was the surprise then to see him stumble into Molly’s saloon two weeks later, dressed in a top hat and an overcoat far too thick for the unforgiving climate of Little Edge.

Jon watched him out of sheer boredom—the other patrons were behaving themselves tonight and up until now nobody had given him reason to kick them out.

The boy's face hadn't lost its youthful glow but his eyes were searching the room with a desperation that spoke of less than pleasant experiences in the last few days. Sipping on his beer, Jon looked him over once more, noticing the little signs of imperfection: There were flecks of dried mud clinging to his coat-tails, his hair was tangled in places where it wasn't covered by his hat and the suitcase he carried underneath one arm showed cracks in the expensive leather.

He booked a room for the night—Molly charged him less than she should, charmed by his unmarred pretty face—and paid on the spot, dangling his purse fat with coins for all to see. The fool wouldn't have money much longer if he kept flaunting his wealth like that.

When the lad made his way to a free table—after thanking Molly profusely for her hospitality—Jon grabbed the mug he had been nursing for the better part of the evening and joined Molly at the bar.

She eyed his mug with unconcealed disapproval.

"You're supposed to work, not drink," she reprimanded him.

"And you're supposed to charge people the proper price for a room and not undercharge them because you’ve got a weakness for pretty boys," he shot back.

Molly hit him with a towel but didn't deny any of his accusations.   


"He was a decent fellow. Very polite, unlike some," she said and threw him a pointed look that he ignored.

"It's obvious he has money. He made sure that we’d all know. The boy means trouble," Jon grumbled.

Molly huffed and puffed up her chest like an agitated mother hen, making her already ample bosom appear even more impressive.

"If there's gonna be trouble then it’s only cause these ruffians can't leave the lad alone. I pay you to make sure the trouble stays out of my saloon. So do what I pay you for and make sure he doesn't get into any."

Jon swallowed the last drop of his beer and set the mug down with a defeated sigh.

"You're paying me to kick out those who don’t behave themselves. You don't pay me to play nanny to a spoiled brat who should've stayed home."

Molly glared at him, her arms akimbo.

"Jon," she warned.

"If they get handsy with him I'll show them the door. Until then he's on his own."

It didn't take long before a group of three approached the boy, who had made a fine job of covering the greasy table with stacks of paper, bottles of ink and several books and was busy writing notes; of what, Jon couldn't begin to imagine.

So entranced was he that he didn't notice the newcomers until after they had made themselves comfortable around the table and stared at him from underneath their broad-brimmed hats.

Jon couldn't make out what was said but it became obvious the young man had been invited to a round of poker when one of the men and the obvious leader of the trio procured a set of cards from underneath his vest and started shuffling them with easy confidence.

The game seemed to delight the boy, who picked his cards with enthusiasm and showed his disappointment all too openly when looking at his hand.

It took the group no more than two rounds before they had cheated the boy out of most of his money and his expression grew more weary with every coin he had to hand over. 

None of his business, Jon kept telling himself while sipping on his too warm beer.

If he attempted to kick out every man who played with marked cards then the saloon would be empty.

And yet, to see that delicate face fall with disappointment, the expressive eyes darkening as he kept losing round after round, it tugged at Jon's heartstrings.

How old was he? Surely, he couldn't have been older than twenty, twenty-five at most, still almost a child in Jon's eyes. Kresten would've been around the same age by now, if only fate had been kind enough to let him live that long.

With a shake of his head he willed the unpleasant thoughts away and, after finishing his beer, walked up to the group seated around the table.

"Don't you think you've swindled enough money out of him, Leech?"

Leech was an unpleasant fellow, ugly as a mud fence and prone to violent outbursts not even his own lackeys were safe from. To say Jon didn’t like him would’ve been an understatement.

Ever so slowly Leech lifted his gaze from his cards to glare at Jon with unconcealed disdain.

"Are you implying I'm cogging, Jensen?" he hissed out between tobacco-stained teeth.

"I'm stating it as fact," Jon replied calmly.

The boy sitting across from Leech looked back and forth between them, his eyes widening in understanding when he had another look at his hand.

"That’s some serious accusation," Leech said, loud enough to draw the attention of every other patron in the saloon. "Surely, you wouldn't accuse a man without proof, eh?"

"You mean like the three extra kings hidden up your sleeve?" Jon said and Leech's grin fell, his face twisting into an angered grimace.

Jon saw the attack coming. Leech jumped off his seat, the chair falling to the ground with a clatter behind him as he swung his fist.

He sidestepped it easily and shoved Leech back into the chair. All the while, the young boy watched with wide eyes, glued to his seat.

"Stop making a fool out of yourself. Leave the boy alone and get lost," Jon said.

“What is it to you, Jensen? Getting soft in your old age and playing minder to a little brat ‘cause you don’t have one of your own anymore?” Leech taunted, all too eager for a fight.

“Just doing my job. Try playing by the rules next time, then I won’t have to kick you out,” Jon said, voice even as he tried to reason with Leech.

Unfortunately, Leech wasn’t a reasonable man.

With a cry, he lunged at Jon. They went down in a heap of limbs and the world went momentarily black when the back of his head made a painful impact on the wooden floorboards.

Jon gasped for air but was quick enough to lift his arms and shield his face before Leech's blows rained down on him.

Every patron in the saloon stopped what they had been doing and watched the spectacle, edging the men on with cheers and whistles.

Jon could hear Molly's increasingly angry shouts over their combined voices and already dreaded the lengthy lecture that would no doubt await him after this, reminding him that he was supposed to end fights, not start them.

Collecting all his strength, he pushed Leech off him and rolled to his feet.

The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth, he must have bitten his tongue when hitting his head, and Jon swallowed it with a wince. He fended off another blow and elbowed Leech in the side.

"Enough already," Jon snarled, baring his bloody teeth. "Take your men. Leave."

Leech was breathing heavily, holding his side where Jon had hit him with his elbow. Then he laughed.

"You think I'm a dog, Jensen? That you can order me around like that?"

"I'd call you a pig if only it weren't such an insult to the animal," Jon spat.   
  
Leech had never been an eloquent man, wicked and sly but not particularly clever, and so he returned Jon's insults the only way he knew how to: with violence.

He narrowly avoided a kick aimed at his groin but another blow grazed his temple and, for a moment, stars flashed before his eyes, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.

There was movement to his right and Jon went in for another attack, only for his fists to hit nothing but thin air.

Cursing underneath his breath, Jon closed his eyes, knowingly risking another attack, and willed the dizziness away.

When he opened them again, Leech was standing before him, hand on his holster. Jon lunged at him, knocking him off his feet.

As they lay in a tangle, kicking and punching, a soft gasp coming from Copperfield was his only warning. The boy had jumped from his seat, screaming something over the deafening noise inside his own head. Then pain exploded behind Jon's eyelids. The sound of glass shattering, strangely muffled, like coming from far away, was the last thing he heard before the world went black and he knew no more.

 

***

 

His head throbbed in a merciless rhythmic pounding, like a sledgehammer threatening to burst open his skull.

Jon opened his eyes with a groan and then closed them quickly again. The soft light of the early day coming in through the tiny window stung like a thousand needles.

"The bottle hit you hard and cut deep into the skin, but the doctor said it should heal without difficulty as long as you change the bandages frequently and keep the stitches clean. Though the headaches will persist for quite some time, I'm afraid."

Willing his eyes open once more and ignoring the sharp pain assaulting his senses at the motion, Jon looked at the young man sitting at his bedside, his hands firmly planted in his lap, nervously wringing a silk handkerchief.

"You're the lad who lost all his money to Leech," Jon mumbled, his voice a hoarse whisper.

The boy blushed up to the tips of his ears but nodded.

"I am indeed," he admitted, "and it was my foolishness which caused you all this trouble. So please, allow me to make amends."

Jon craned his neck, letting his gaze wander through the small but clean room before settling on the desk crammed into one corner. It was littered with books, paper and bottles of ink.

"We're still in the saloon," he said, more statement than question.

"Yes," the boy affirmed. "I apologise for the clutter. I tend to forget my surroundings when working and often this habit manifests itself in chaos.”

"You're a writer," Jon said without taking his eyes off the paper-plastered desk.

He could hear the boy shift in his seat, the fine fabrics of his clothes rustling. 

"You're rather observant," he said. 

There was warmth in his voice and a note of pleasant surprise that made Jon turn his head to return Copperfield’s gaze.

"Just an educated guess. Kinda hard to miss all the books and paper." He shrugged, and immediately regretted it as pain shot up his neck.

"Careful," the boy warned, concern lacing his voice. "The doctor said you should rest and not move too much, otherwise you’d risk trauma."

"The doctor?" Jon asked through gritted teeth. "You’ve sent for the doctor?"

"Of course! You were injured. It was the least I could do to show my gratitude."

"There's only one doctor in this twice forsaken town and he doesn't work for free," Jon grumbled.

The boy was quick to placate him. "There is no need to worry. He has already been paid handsomely for his services, so all that is left for you to do is rest."

"You paid him?" Jon asked, pale brows drawn together. "After you lost all that money to Leech and his lackeys?"

"Well," the boy said, his blue eyes fixed on the folds of the white bedlinen. "I've been very fortunate and now money is no longer an issue I have to concern myself with."

Out of anybody else's mouth these words would have been pretentious, arrogant even, but coming from this boy, with his eyes lowered so demurely and his cheeks red with embarrassment, they sounded near apologetic.

Jon sighed and leaned back. The cushions were soft, filled with actual down feathers if he wasn't mistaken and therefore not one of the hay-filled pillows usually found in the other rooms.

"Then it wouldn't have made a difference. Had I not confronted Leech you'd still be flush with cash.”

He heard the boy swallow and unbidden, the image of his slender neck bare of the cravat came to Jon's mind.

"Sir, please don't assume that because of my wealth or youth I don't know hardship."

Jon cracked an eye open to look at the boy, his face just as lovely but his full mouth pressed into a thin line, his eyes shining with determination.

"Don't call me Sir, that's for old men and soldiers."

The boy blinked, momentarily startled but he quickly regained his composure.

"What should I call you then?" he asked.

"Jon."

"Just Jon?"

"Just Jon."

The boy rose from his chair then and bowed before him, all proper with one hand behind his back, the other on his chest.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Jon. David Copperfield, at your service."

The bow—even though no doubt a genuine gesture of respect—was a sight so unusual and out of place, Jon couldn't help but smile.

"Enough," he said, voice a little softer than before. "Sit down, Copperfield. I have no need of your services."

He did as he had been told, his cheeks red with obvious pleasure at having educed a hesitant smile from Jon.

"Nevertheless, I owe you. I was a stranger and yet you called those ruffians out on their cheating and paid dearly for it." Copperfield said.

"You paid for the doctor and let me sleep in your bed, we're even." Jon said.

Copperfield seemed more annoyed than relieved, his nose scrunched up in displeasure.

"It was my naivety that caused you trouble in the first place. I owe you much more than a few hours of sleep and some medical attention."

Jon, tired and still in pain, sank deeper into the pillows, unwilling to argue with the stubborn lad any longer.

"Then let me rest for a few more hours, I shall consider your debt paid by then."

Guilt flushed Copperfield’s face and he rose from his seat, suddenly quick to leave.

"Of course, forgive me. My room shall be yours for as long as you need it."

He hurried to the door, only to return to retrieve his quill, ink and paper from the cluttered desk. When he closed the door behind him, he threw one last worried look at Jon.

Again, Jon couldn't help but smile at his queer behavior. Long after he had closed the door, the handsome face of David Copperfield occupied Jon’s mind and followed him into his dreams.

 

***

 

He awoke to the soft scratching sounds of quill on paper. Careful not to alarm Copperfield, Jon turned a little and opened his eyes.

The boy sat at the desk, his brows furrowed in contemplation as he moved the quill over the paper.

He had taken off his waistcoat and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. His arms where white and unblemished, his fingertips stained with ink and his face was illuminated by a single candle, otherwise the room was dark.

Jon didn't bother to announce his awakening. Instead, he watched Copperfield a little longer, fascinated by his serious expression when before he seemed nothing but a careless fool. He didn't know how long he watched Copperfield but when he threatened to be lulled back to sleep by the soft light and rhythmic scratching of the quill, he made himself noticed with a soft grunt, as if just awakened.

Immediately, Copperfield ceased his writing and turned around, an apologetic expression on his face.

"Did I wake you? I apologise, it wasn't my intention to disturb your sleep but I couldn't stay in the common room any longer and force Miss Molly to keep it open just for my sake."

"It’s your room, no need to be considerate," Jon said. "Don’t you writers ever sleep?"

He was gifted with another of Copperfield's smiles.

"Hardly and only at the most unfitting of times. The muse cares little for propriety," he said.

"What important thing are you writing that your muse is so insistent on you putting it down in the middle of the night?" Jon asked.

He had slept for most of the day and now, with little else to do but lie in bed, he found himself bored and willing to engage the boy in conversation.

"Little more than notes, I’m afraid. Half-formed ideas, lines without context." He gestured towards a pile of loose pages. "I hope to turn all this into a proper novel one day. A novel about the New World."

"Is that why you’re here, losing your money to seedy men in even seedier saloons? Because you want to write a novel about America?"

Copperfield scrunched up his nose in indignation and Jon had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

"I'm here to study country and people, yes, and I think I've already found my antagonist."

"A brute swindling unassuming foreigners out of their money?"

"A ruffian pretending to be a gentleman only to ridicule those whom he had previously offered help," Copperfield shot back.

Jon paused for a moment, surprised yet intrigued by Copperfield's sudden and unexpected flare of temper.

He relented with a sigh. "You’re right, I've been ungrateful. And I apologise."

The tension in Copperfield's body abated and his eyes that had turned piercing and sharp were gentle once more.

"It has been a long and eventful day and it resulted in injury for you. Your irritation is justified and therefore easily forgiven. Maybe it would be the better course of action to retire for the night, before we lose control over our emotions altogether."

He got up, taking the waistcoat hanging over the chair with him when he made his way to the door. Turning around, he bowed once more.

"I bid you a pleasant night, Mr Jon. Tomorrow, I'll have a proposal for you if you are so inclined."

He closed the door behind him with a silent click. Left behind to ponder his parting words until he fell asleep Jon was none the wiser when it came to David Copperfield.

 

***

 

Come next morning, Jon headed downstairs to the common room, washed, groomed and with the wound on his head freshly bandaged.

Copperfield was already waiting for him and invited him to sit at his table with an enthusiastic wave of his hand.

They were nearly alone, only a few other guests had risen as early and Jon was glad to see that Leech and his men were not among them.

"Mr Jon, good morning. I hope you have slept well, considering the circumstances?" Copperfield greeted him, face freshly shaven and rosy.

Jon sat down with a huff. "What’s this?" he asked, eyes roaming the table that was sagging under the weight of at least a dozen different dishes.

"Why, breakfast of course," Copperfield replied, obviously confused by his disbelieving tone.

"It's enough to fill the stomach of a whole battalion," Jon said.

A blush bloomed on Copperfield's cheeks and he busied himself with a handkerchief, carefully unfolding it before placing it in his lap.

"I wasn't sure which dishes you’d prefer so I ordered a selection."

"The entire menu, you mean. Didn't even know Pete could cook all this." 

He sat down, still in awe of the feast that had so unexpectedly presented itself in front of him. Usually his breakfast consisted of a bowl of porridge and a cup of black coffee.

"Please, eat as much as you like," Copperfield said. "Business shouldn't be conducted on an empty stomach, as my good friend Mr Micawber always used to say."

"Business?" Jon asked as he cut into his fried eggs.

"Indeed," Copperfield nodded while spreading a generous amount of jam on a piece of dark bread. "I conversed with Miss Molly for quite some time last night and she told me your employment here was supposed to be only temporary and that you’re seeking new opportunities."

A lie. Jon had never considered leaving Molly and the saloon behind. His sense of adventure had abandoned him long ago, a flame brutally extinguished and never rekindled.

He’d have to have a few words with Molly later.

Copperfield prattled on, unaware of Jon's souring mood. "I've planned on touring the land, starting with a place called Dodge City, where I wanted to collect inspiration for my book but since the incident with that fellow Leech, I feel as though I've been terribly unprepared for the challenges of the West. As I understood it, Miss Molly is paying you to keep disagreeable folk out of her pub. I would like to pay you to accompany me during my travels and do much the same."

Jon raised a brow, slowly chewing on a piece of greasy bacon.

"Why should I leave my home to play your minder?" he asked.

Copperfield startled, surprised by the unexpected reluctance.

"I have a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in and a warm meal a day, why would I leave all that behind?" Jon asked again.

"But I was under the impression..." Copperfield trailed off, voice dying with sudden insecurity.

"Well, you were wrong," Jon snapped as he speared a roasted mushroom on his fork before plopping it into his mouth.

Copperfield fell silent, his food standing untouched before him and Jon let him be. God damn it, Molly. Planting foolish ideas in an even more foolish boy's head. It was not the life he had dreamt of but it was a life, so why did Molly think he would throw it away to play babysitter to a boy who knew nothing of the world?

He was angry, he realized when his knife slipped on the plate as he chipped away the white glaze. And acting unreasonably. It was not Copperfield's fault that Molly had apparently decided he needed a change of scenery. He knew she was worried, staring at him with disapproval when he was sitting alone when all the guests had already left to sleep, sipping listlessly on another glass of whiskey, drinking straight from the bottle. It was less dramatic than she made it out to be. He still had a job to do, after all, and he could hardly do it when drunk out of his mind.

No, he was perfectly fine with where he was right now.

He made a grab for another piece of bacon when he noticed Copperfield staring at him, eyes a soft grey today, like the sea after a storm.

"What?" he grumbled.

"Are you happy though?" Copperfield asked, voice low yet firm. "Because I don’t believe you are. I don't know what has happened that you found yourself stranded here, but stranded you are. You don't really belong here, do you?"

Copperfield smiled, tilting his head as he watched Jon's stony expression. "Not because you haven't been born to this land but because this is not the life you have imagined for yourself."

Jon swallowed thickly, the bacon losing all flavour in his mouth.

"What did Molly tell you?" he asked with more force than he had intended.

To his credit, Copperfield didn't even flinch. "Not much and I didn't ask since that would have been discourteous of me. But please forgive me when I say this: it's quite obvious to those who care to look."

"We're done," Jon grumbled, slamming his fork and knife down on the table. He got up from his seat, the chair legs screeching on the wooden floor boards.

"But--”

He didn't stay to hear whatever it was Copperfield had to say. 

Nobody dared to try and stop him on his way outside but he could feel their questioning glances on his back, burning like the midday sun.

A smoke, he needed a smoke.

Molly found him later, hiding behind the stables with a hastily rolled cigarette between his lips puffing furiously.

"Is that what you do now?" she asked. "Bolt when things get uncomfortable? Sulk in a corner like a petulant child?"

Jon scowled, but didn't acknowledge her presence otherwise.

"You had no right barking at the boy like that," she continued, undeterred by his foul mood and unwillingness to talk.

"What did you tell him, Molly?" he finally asked.

"Nothing but the truth. That you being here was never supposed to be something permanent. That I think a change would do you good. That young Copperfield needs somebody to protect him and you’d be just the man for that job."

Jon laughed, a humorless sound almost swallowed by the sharp rasping noise of a match being struck as Molly lit herself a cigarette.

"You want to get rid of me so badly?" he asked and threw Molly a look. She returned it with a piercing glare.

"Don't be ridiculous, Jon." She elbowed him in the side, causing him to almost swallow his cigarette. "And don't act like you don't know what I’m talking about. This isn’t the life you ever dreamed of having and you know it."

Jon shrugged and with one last drag, threw the butt to the ground and stomped it out with the heel of his mud caked boot.

"We don't always get what we want. You of all people should know that."

"And because I know it, I'm telling you to take Copperfield up on his offer.” Molly countered. ”Go with him, Jon. Live a bit. You're not as old as you pretend to be. Life doesn't have to end in a shabby saloon."

"You calling your own saloon shabby now?" Jon asked. His anger had evaporated together with the last curls of smoke from his cigarette, now he felt only exhaustion.

"I'm calling it whatever I want, it's mine and I love it like a mother loves her child, but you? You're not made for that kind of work. You're a soldier, not a barmaid."

"Neither am I a wet nurse, which is what Copperfield wants me to be. He hasn't got a clue about life here, Molly."

"Of course he hasn't," Molly retorted. "He's young and inexperienced but he's a kind soul and I’d rather not see him broken by the cruelty of the world."

"You're awfully fond of him, considering you've known him for barely two days."

"I'm also awfully fond of you, big fool that you are," she argued, eyes twinkling with mischief. "We're friends, Jon, and sometimes friends know you better than you know yourself. Go with him."

Jon fell silent, eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun made her slow ascent into the sky.

"We'll see..."

 

***

 

The next two weeks Jon spent arguing with Molly and running errands for Copperfield, packing necessities and buying a pair of horses from a local farmer, with money his new employer had given him all too willingly.

Copperfield was entirely too trusting, Jon mused as he led the horses down the dusty street.

His eyes had gone wide with wonder when Copperfield handed him more money than he earned in a year without blinking an eye and had tasked him to buy horses to carry them on their way through America, claiming that he knew nothing of horses and therefore trusted Jon's expertise.

Foolish boy. Jon could have taken off with both money and horses, living a comfortable life somewhere far away from here and Copperfield would have been none the wiser.

Other men would have undoubtedly done so, but Jon, despite not having been a soldier for many, many years, could not forget the virtues that he had been taught as a young man. Virtues such as honor and sincerity, virtues that now made him walk down the street leading to Molly's saloon, his pockets full of money and two horses trotting behind him.

Copperfield had been downright ecstatic when Jon had agreed to be his guide and protector while he toured the small towns of the West. His usually pale cheeks had been rosy, his eyes glimmering with excitement. Jon’s stomach had tightened at the sight and the bitter realization of how young the boy truly was settled in his guts.

"Jon! Stop dreaming and look where you're going!"

He startled, torn from his dark thoughts to come face to face with Molly.

"Molly?" he asked, puzzled, and only then did he take in his surroundings. It seemed his feet had brought him right to Molly's doorsteps when his head had been otherwise occupied.

"Some fine guide you are," Molly scolded, "almost running headfirst into a wall."

Before he could protest, Copperfield appeared around the corner, carrying a backpack that was quite obviously too heavy for him, smiling despite his struggle.

"Let's not be so harsh with Mr Jon. We all get lost inside our own heads from time to time. Writers do it all the time and call it work."

He smiled at Jon when he stepped past him, and, backpack completely forgotten for the moment, busied himself with feeding the horses small lumps of sugar that he must have saved from his breakfast tea.

"Oh, they're quite delightful creatures," Copperfield cooed.

"I don't care how delightful they are as long as they can carry our weight and luggage," Jon grumbled and pushed past Molly, telling himself that her cutting glare didn’t bother him.

He picked the backpack that Copperfield had abandoned up and threw it onto one of the horses' back. The animal neighed once but didn't protest otherwise and continued to beg Copperfield for more treats.

"Good enough," Jon decided and turned to Copperfield.

The boy had yet to abandon his cravat but had at least forgone the frock coat, standing before Jon in a blindingly white shirt and a simple waistcoat. It was no attire for a journey but undoubtedly more comfortable than his usual dress.

"You said you wanted to travel to Dodge City, god knows why, nothing there but dust and death, and there are several routes we could take. All of them dangerous, of course, but they’ll bring us to many places that might inspire your fickle muse. It's up to you to decide which to take."

Copperfield looked up, the hand that had petted the horse stilling as he regarded Jon carefully.

"Is there one you'd recommend?"

Jon clicked his tongue. "There’s no route that’s entirely safe. The land is vast and the sheriffs only venture so far out of town. Bandits roam the roads and wild beasts."

Copperfield's eyes went wide and Jon laughed.

"Did your sense of adventure abandon you already, Copperfield? Sure you still wanna do this?"

Immediately, Copperfield's expression tightened, his eyes steely with determination.

"Certainly," he said. "More so than ever, if I might be so frank."

Jon startled and found himself at a loss for words. They stared at each other, unblinking and silent until Jon relented and turned away.

"Good, then you better learn how to properly pack. There's more that needs to fit in there,” he grumbled.

"More?" he heard Copperfields disbelieving call behind him.

He didn't turn around, unwilling to show Copperfield the smile pulling at the corners of his lips, but he stopped in his tracks and threw a look over his shoulder.

"Yes, more. Or do you intend to drink ink and eat paper? We haven't packed provisions yet."

 

***

 

The night was starless, the moon hidden behind clouds and the small oil-lamp he called his own was all but insufficient to illuminate the yellowed map lying unfolded on Jon's desk.

He had returned to his own quarters as soon as the pounding headaches had subsided, unwilling to stay in Copperfield's room and sleep in the bed that smelled of the boy any longer than absolutely necessary.

Now he sat brooding over the map, pondering which route would be best to take. It hadn't been a lie when he told Copperfield that most roads leading there were dangerous and haunted by bands of outlaws who wouldn't hesitate to kill them for a few coins worth nothing more than a tankard of beer. The boy had insisted though,  horses and facing the long road instead of of being confined to another shaking ship or overcrowded train wagon.

Copperfield's stubbornness and insistence had caught Jon by surprise and he hadn't argued any further, merely giving in with an exasperated sigh.

Nevertheless, he was still convinced that it was a foolish undertaking, travelling from town to town with nothing but Jon's old shotgun for protection. But for reasons he himself had no desire to scrutinize, he had agreed to both Copperfield's plan and Molly's insistence that he accompany the boy.

It did indeed seem like Jon was getting soft, just as Leech had said.

A knock at the door tore him from his thoughts.

Cursing underneath his breath Jon made his way to the door and when he opened it he was greeted with Copperfield's wide-eyed visage.

"Please forgive the late disturbance but I couldn't sleep—the excitement no doubt—and when I went to ask Pete for some hot water to make tea, I saw that there was light coming from underneath your door," Copperfield explained before Jon could do so much as grunt in agreement.

Yes?" he finally asked, a little hesitant, fearing that Copperfield might unleash another such gush of words.

"Well, I thought we might as well share a cup of tea since neither of us seems to be able to find any sleep anytime soon," Copperfield said and lifted a heavy tea kettle Jon hadn't noticed before.

He wanted to decline, even thought about shutting the door in Copperfield's face, but the soothing scent of mint wafting up his nose made him reconsider.

With a defeated sigh he opened the door wide enough for Copperfield to slip inside.

"Usually I prefer but thought that this time mint would serve me better in calming my frazzled nerves. I have to admit, I'm quite excited."

Copperfield prattled on while preparing two cups of steaming hot tea, seemingly unbothered by the lack of response from Jon.

"It has been quite some time since my last bigger journey, years if I'm being quite honest, and never have I been on one of this scope."

Jon couldn't suppress a soft huff.

"Your last journey?" he asked. "What kind of journey could that have been? Sitting in a carriage, visiting a pretty little miss to woo her with even prettier words. All done in a day's work?"

The fiery glint in his eyes that Jon had come to expect from Copperfield whenever he was provoked did not ignite. Instead, his expression softened and melancholy fell over his face like a fine veil.

"Not quite," he said in a small voice, "I was but a boy back then and the distance seemed endless at the time, even though it had been a four-days march at best. I was on my own and had nothing to my name but the clothes on my back and a destination in mind. I arrived in London in only breeches and a shirt. Quite the adventure for a boy ten years of age."

He laughed, the sound a soft, broken thing.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to lose myself in self-pity. It's unbecoming."

Jon could do little but stare at the young man before him, struck speechless by this story of his. What possessed a boy of ten to wander through England alone? What misery had befallen Copperfield in his youth that he was forced to do this? Jon could not tell and a respect and sympathy for the young man that he had not thought possible when he first met him wormed its way into his heart.

He wasn't a man of many words, never had been, not even in his own native tongue and all the more so in the language of this land, a language that, at times, still eluded him. Yet, he wanted to offer some measure of comfort.

"You're not alone this time," he said, all but mumbling into his cup of tea.

Silence fell once more and he could feel Copperfield's wide-eyed gaze upon him.

"What," he grumbled, "you think I'd let you wander around the West alone and only in a pair of breeches?"

Gathering his courage, Jon raised his head and looked at Copperfield.

Even in the half-dark of the room the blush on his cheeks was unmistakable. 

They looked at each other, both of them equally unsure of how to proceed until Copperfield laughed and all the tension in the room dissipated with it.

"No, I reckon that you'd be gentleman enough to at least allow me my hat to shield me from the sun."

 

***

 

Copperfield turned the hat in his hands, fascination written across his face as he scrutinized the seams, running his finger across the plain headband embroidered with the manufacturer's name.   


"Don't just stare at it, put it on," Jon grumbled and mounted his horse.

Both of them had risen early, foregoing proper breakfast for a mug of strong, tar-like coffee and some bread, and were now ready to start their journey.

The sun had barely risen over the horizon and the air was crisp and clean, but soon enough it would get the more stifling the higher the sun would rise, and then Copperfield would be glad of the broad-brimmed hat.

“Is it one of yours?” Copperfield asked, either oblivious to Jon's irritation or simply choosing to ignore it. “It appears quite new.”

Jon shrugged as  he took hold of the pommel and pulled himself up on his horse. “Who cares if it’s old or new, just put it on.” 

There was no need for Copperfield to know that he had bought it on a whim, after he had agreed to accompany the boy on his travels and had discovered it in the town’s only tailor shop when he was out to run all necessary errands.

The night prior they had finally decided on a route, one that, if they did not linger, would bring them to their first destination after a two-days ride. Wrycreak hardly deserved to be called a town but Jon had been there before and its inhabitants were hospitable enough, as long as one had the necessary coins. They would spend the night at the local saloon and then continue their journey by first lightfall of the next morning.

Or at least that had been the plan. What Jon had failed to take into account was Copperfield's endless fascination with all things new and unknown.

It was Molly who finally put an end to it and took the hat out of Copperfield's hands.

“Here, lemme help you. This is how it’s done.”

Obediently Copperfield bent his head so that Molly could reach him atop his horse and with one hand she smoothed down Copperfield's full locks, with the other, she put the hat on his head, adjusting it a little until it wasn’t at risk of being blown away by the slightest gust of wind anymore.

“Thank you, Miss Molly,” Copperfield gushed as he straightened in his saddle. “I just fear I don't look half as dashing as Mr Jon.”

She stopped him with a wave of her hand. “Nonsense, you're a sight for sore eyes.”

“I'm sure the coyotes and vultures will appreciate it,” Jon grumbled and urged his horse to a lazy trot. "Come now, we've wasted enough time.”

Molly shot him a glare. “At least let me say my goodbyes, Jensen.” She turned to Copperfield once more, her expression much softer than when she had regarded him.

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr Copperfield. Maybe, should time and circumstances allow it, you'll come and see old Molly again one day.”

“You have my word as a gentleman,” Copperfield said and, with a small flourish, took her hand to kiss it.

She flushed like a maiden and Jon rolled his eyes at the both of them. With a disgusted grunt he spurred his horse, not waiting for Copperfield to finish chattering with Molly.

“Farewell,” Molly called after them as they made their way down the dusty road, her arm raised in as she wave them goodbye.

Her round silhouette disappeared quickly behind the horizon, along with the townhouses.

Jon set a quick pace, one that didn't allow for much casual banter between them, but he watched Copperfield out of the corner of his eye.

He could keep up easily enough, but unlike Jon he was easily distracted by the sights around him, his gaze moving from left to right, roaming over the unremarkable landscape and taking in every miniscule detail. 

Jon could only guess what it was that fascinated him so. There was little to see but dust and sand and the occasional prairie dog that ran for shelter as soon as they approached. Otherwise the West offered little variation.

By the time the sun had risen to its highest point they were forced to slow down. The heat was unpleasant to say the least and if they didn't want to exhaust their horses then they would have to take a break sooner or later, feed them and allow them to regain their strength.

Jon pulled at the reins and his horse came to a halt. Copperfield did the same.   


Sweat had collected on his forehead and his face was red despite the hat casting a protecting shadow, yet he looked at Jon questioningly when they stopped.

"The horses need a break," Jon explained, "and judging from your red face, so do you.”

For once, Copperfield didn't argue with him.

They made camp underneath a cottonwood tree and let the horses loose so they could feed on the tall grass and drink from a small stream not far from it.

The water was clean and pleasantly cold and when they sat down underneath the tree to eat a meager meal consisting of some bread and dried meat, Jon didn’t miss how Copperfield stared at the river with longing in his eyes.

“We shouldn't continue our journey until after it has cooled down a bit. If you wish to take a bath then go ahead,” Jon grumbled without looking at Copperfield.

“A bath?” Copperfield whispered, as if the mere notion was too scandalous a thing to even consider. “I can't possibly take a bath here. It would be indecent.”

Jon shrugged and stretched out his long legs, making himself comfortable against the thick tree stump and pulled his hat further down until it covered all but his mouth.

“What?” he asked, amusement evident in his voice. “Afraid the foxes and hawks might catch a glimpse? I assure you they don't care and neither do I.”

Copperfield fell silent and Jon didn't bother waiting for an answer. He closed his eyes and left the boy to his own devices.

It didn't take very long until the soft rustling sound of fabric told Jon that Copperfield had gotten up. Tilting his head just enough to catch a glimpse, he could see that Copperfield had made his way to the stream. Still completely dressed but for his feet. He had taken off his square-toed shoes and white socks, as well as rolled up his trousers so that the pale skin of his calves was visible.

Jon watched Copperfield carefully dipping his toes into the cold water, pulling back the first time before gathering his courage and stepping into the water. He couldn't see Copperfield's face but the sudden tension falling from his shoulders made it clear that he quite enjoyed the sensation on his overheated skin.

“Not quite a bath, is it?” Jon called out to him.

If Copperfield was surprised to find him awake and watching him then he knew how to hide it well. He turned to meet Jon's gaze, a pleased smile illuminating his face.

“Not quite,” he admitted, “but pleasant nonetheless. The water is wonderfully cold, why don't you heed your own adviceand join me, Mr Jon?”

“Join you?” Jon asked, surprised in turn.

“Of course,” Copperfield said, “I don't doubt that you are more accustomed to the merciless heat but that doesn’t mean you cannot enjoy what refreshment this stream has to offer.”

Jon wanted to dismiss him, wanted to tell him that the shade of the tree and the soft breeze were enough for him, but looking at Copperfield's hopeful face, Jon didn't have it in him to deny the boy. With a sigh, he got up and walked over to where Copperfield was sitting, his boots and socks along the way.

Copperfield hadn't been wrong, the water was pleasant and Jon couldn't help but sigh. He hadn't realized how sore he had been.

“I feel I owe you an apology,” Copperfield said suddenly after they had sat together in comfortable silence for some time.

“An apology?” Jon asked, eyes trained on the their two grazing horses. “What for?”

“For calling you a villain. Or for implying you are one. I don't think you are.”

Jon huffed. “And what do you think I am?”

“A man of outstanding character,” Copperfield said without hesitation. “You have been nothing but kind to me, despite my shortcomings.”

Jon felt hot underneath his collar and, with a grunt, pulled his bandana loose.

“Nobody would have deserved to lose their money to Leech and accompanying you on your journey? I get paid for it, don't I?”

He felt Copperfield's eyes on him and heat crawled up his neck.

“Well,” Copperfield concluded, cheerful as ever, “I'm grateful nonetheless, no matter what your motivation. And I find myself enjoying your company greatly.”

Jon didn't dare raise his eyes when he heard Copperfield getting up next to him.Though he could not resist a curious glance at Copperfield's naked feet and calves.

His limbs were as slender as Jon had expected from a British aristocrat, the skin pale and only covered with a fine dusting of hair, but what really caught his attention was a fine web of scars covering his leg from his knee down to his ankle.

Unwillingly Jon was reminded of the tale Copperfield had told him the night before they left and once more he found himself wondering what had befallen him to gain such scars.

He didn't dare ask and if Copperfield noticed his blatant staring then he was gracious enough not to comment on it. 

Soon enough he was fully dressed again, skin and scars covered once more and Jon had no excuse to let his gaze linger any longer. 

The horses weren't particularly happy to have their grazing disrupted, but a piece of sugar placated them enough so that he and Copperfield could mount them once more and continue on their journey.

They rode in silence for the better part of an hour before it burst out of Copperfield.

“My scars, do they disgust you?”

Jon could do little but stare at him, caught entirely off-guard.

“I saw you looking at them,” Copperfield admitted, eyes cast low.

“No,” Jon reassured him as soon as he found his voice again. “Why would they disgust me?”

Copperfield held his head low still, his lip pulled in between his teeth. He didn't believe him, Jon realized.

“I just...didn't expect them on someone like you, is all,” he added, a little awkward but honest.

“Because of where I come from?”

“Because of your youth. Scars like that, they don't happen by accident.”

Copperfield fell silent, pain over his face before he turned away and said no more.

It was none of his business, Jon told himself. God knew he had enough scars of his own and was just as unwilling to share the stories behind them.

And yet, Copperfield was no soldier, he had never seen the horrors of war and coming from a distinguished family it was unlikely he had earned those scars with hard work. Neither were they fresh. They had been pale and smooth, no doubt several years old already, meaning that he must have acquired them during his childhood. How did it come that Copperfield was marked in such a way?

There was another explanation, one that Jon refused to entertain until they had ridden another hour without a word exchanged between them.

Jon had seen scars like that before, on horses deemed unruly by their owners and in need of discipline. A lash delivered with too much force could leave marks not unlike those he had seen on Copperfield.

Disgust worked its way up Jon's throat. He had always thought himself a strict parent—Marie had always been more forgiving of Kresten’s antics—but never once had he raised his hand, let alone whipped his boy. To think that somebody had done so with Copperfield not only once but often enough to leave a whole web of scars, made Jon's heart clench in sympathy.

He didn't pity Copperfield—he had always thought pity to be more of an insult than a comfort—but Jon felt a newfound respect when he looked at Copperfield's seemingly carefree face now.

“Mr Jon?”

Jon blinked, torn from his thoughts by Copperfield's soft voice, and raised his head. Copperfield was eyeing him curiously but there was a hesitation in his words and a caution in his expression that hadn't been there before.

“Did I displease you?” he asked.

“The scars,” Jon asked, never one to beat about the bush. “You didn't get them by way of accident or hard work, did you?”

To his credit, Copperfield didn't turn away. He held Jon's piercing gaze and straightened in his saddle, but Jon could see the tension in his hands as he gripped his reins tighter, so tight his knuckles turned white. When he answered, his voice wavered with uncertainty.

“No, I didn't. I earned them with disobedience.”

Had Jon hoped that Copperfield would elaborate then he found himself sorely mistaken. No further explanation came forth from Copperfield.

It didn't matter, Jon had heard enough to come to his own conclusion.

“I think I also owe you an apology,” Jon said and even though the boy didn't indicate that he had listened to anything of what Jon had been saying, he went on. “I thought you a spoiled, rich brat, only here on a whim. I've been wrong.”

And with these words he nudged his horse ahead, leaving his words hanging in the air, for Copperfield to do with them as he wished.

  
***   
  


When nightfall came, they made camp beneath a ring of trees not far from the small trail they had been following so far and Jon stocked a fire with dead branches collected from around their camp.

As he worked to kindle the fire Copperfield joined him. It seemed curiosity had gotten the better of him and had made him forget his previous sour mood. Jon was glad for it.

“Wouldn't it be easier to use matches?” he asked, bent over Jon.

Jon clicked with his tongue, all the while continuing to strike the fire steel with the sharp edge of his flint.   


"Matches are expensive and you can only use so many until the box is empty. A fire striker and a piece of flint never run empty and cost you nothing but a little patience."

“Would you teach me how to kindle a fire?”

"It's simple enough," he explained. "The angle is important. If you don't get it right it's impossible to light a proper spark. There's a small box of tinder in my saddle bag, go and get it please."

Copperfield jumped at the opportunity and hurried over to Jon's horse. After some rummaging, Jon heard a victorious cry and soon after Copperfield was back at his side, the box with the tinder cradled like a treasure in his hand.

"Put some of it next to the fire striker, yes, like that. Good."

He watched, body taut with anticipation, as Jon struck the fire steel with the sharp edge of the flint over and over until finally one of the sparks caught the tinder.

Copperfield cried out in delight and Jon couldn't suppress a small smile himself as he carefully placed the burning tinder in between the kindling and branches he had prepared earlier.

"I have a task for you, Copperfield," Jon said when he was sure the fire wouldn't go out, "See the logs of wood over there? I want you to add three or four to the fire, one after another. Just make sure you don't add too many too quickly or you'll stifle the fire. Can you do that?"

"Certainly!" Copperfield instantly proclaimed, eager like a young pup. "I have often stoked the fire in my aunt's house. She always feared getting ash on her dress, despite only ever wearing black."

Jon snorted. "Your aunt sounds like an interesting woman. Maybe you can tell me more of her over dinner."

He left Copperfield for the moment, confident that the boy would tend to his task diligently and made his way over to the horses.

His own stallion greeted him with an indifferent huff, Copperfield's mare ignored him entirely. Both animals had taken an unexpected shine to the boy, no doubt fuelled by his insistence on feeding them sugar whenever Jon wasn't looking.

"Ungrateful beasts," he muttered as he searched the saddlebags for their provisions.

Loaded with a small, cast-iron skillet, hard cheese wrapped in wax paper, some strips of dried meat and dried beans he made his way back to Copperfield.

He had done well. The fire was blazing high, cracking happily and radiating pleasant warmth.

Copperfield eyed him curiously, head tilted like a bird's, but didn't comment and contented himself with watching Jon.

Jon harboured no illusions concerning his own culinary skills. He was a simple man with simple tastes and his cooking reflected that.

Nonetheless, when he handed Copperfield a plate of mashed beans seasoned with a bit of chili, some dried meat and a piece of hard cheese, the boy looked at it as if Jon had presented him with a feast of nectar and ambrosia.

"You should eat before it gets cold," Jon grumbled, strangely flustered.

Jon watched him wearily, ultimately pleased when the corners of Copperfield's mouth curled into a smile at the first bite.

"It's delicious!"

"No need to flatter me, it's just meat and beans," Jon said. Yet, he couldn't deny that the content expression on the boy's face pleased him in return.

They spent the rest of their meal in companionable silence and later, Jon watched as Copperfield wrote by the dim light of the fire, his fingertips stained with blotches of ink.

Even though they did not talk, Copperfield's concentrated face provided Jon with more than enough entertainment. His visage would not rest, a myriad of emotions flickering over the handsome features, and Jon made a game of it, trying to identify every single one of them and to commit them to memory.

Copperfield would scrunch up his nose when frustrated, stuck on a line he just couldn't seem to get right. When searching for the right words, he would stick out his tongue, just a little, and furrow his brows. Once he found what he had been looking for his eyes would brighten, the creases on his forehead smoothing out as he furiously scribbled down the words, as if afraid the muse would abandon him again, just as fast as it had come to his aid before.

Watching him write proved to be unexpectedly soothing and soon Jon could feel his eyes growing heavy. He fell asleep with the sounds of crackling fire and Copperfield's quill scratching over paper.

 

***

 

"Jon?"

His eyes fluttered open, his dreamless sleep coming to an abrupt end.

Copperfield was bent over him, his thick locks framing his face like a negative halo.

He was beautiful, Jon thought with astonishment, as if he had only just realized it.

"Mr Jon?" Copperfield asked again, eyes searching for a sign of recognition on Jon's face.

His voice was strained with an underlying sense of urgency, as if he had tried to rouse Jon from sleep for quite some time already.

He must have been more exhausted than he had thought if the sight of a pretty lad was enough to lull him to sleep so completely.

"Copperfield?" Jon straightened up, his bones creaking in protest.

"Apologies for waking you but I've heard something moving through the undergrowth, circling around the fire but always staying just out of sight."

All traces of sleep that had lingered in Jon's body vanished and he rose to his feet with a soft curse, pulling Copperfield with him.

"Dangerous animals live in these parts, wolves and other creatures I have no desire of crossing paths with. They usually keep their distance, more afraid of men than we are of them but hunger is a constant here and they might be getting desperate."

He halted when Copperfield's fingers tightened in the folds of his shirt and suddenly the proximity of their bodies seemed unbearable. Jon pulled away, a little too fast for it to be considered nonchalant. Copperfield did nothing to hold him back, nor did he comment on Jon's sudden move, yet Jon moved to retrieve his gun, trying to mask his unease.

"Stoke the fire. It might offer more protection than a gun would," he told Copperfield.

He went without protest, but Jon didn't fail to notice the red color high on his cheeks.

Pushing all thoughts of Copperfield to the furthest recesses of his mind, he loaded his gun and peered into the darkness, on the lookout for any beast that might try and attack them.

It was neither wolf nor dingo that attacked them. If possible, it was an even fouler beast.

Jon cocked his gun.

" What a surprise to meet you here, Leech," he said, spitting the name out like an insult.

Leech didn't even try to hide the smug smile spreading on his face when he stepped into their small circle of light. He was flanked by two of his loyal henchman, each of them as unsavory as Leech himself.

The whole lot was an unsavory sight indeed, though Jon couldn't help but feel grim satisfaction at seeing the half-healed wounds on their faces—remnants of their brawl in Molly's saloon.

"Isn't it?" Leech said as he stepped closer, hands on his belt. "When I heard that you had run away, with your tail between your legs, before we could settle our business with each other like men, I was devastated."

Jon was tempted to shoot Leech then and there but a quick glance to the right, where one of Leech's men cocked his revolver, made him think better of it.

"We have no business with each other," he said instead.

Three armed men against a former soldier and a boy who had probably never held a gun in his life. He had battled worse odds.

"You should leave now," Jon said with a confidence he didn’t feel.

"Jensen, you know I don't like people threatening me and that sounded like a threat for sure."

Jon raised his gun.

"If I were threatening you, you'd know it."

Leech's mouth parted in a grin so big it threatened to split his face in half. Jon was stalling for time and they both knew  that.

"I'm no savage, Jensen. I can be reasoned with. Just give me what you owe me and we'll be on our way."

"Owe you? I owe you nothing."

"You owe me the money I would have won if not for your meddling," Leech hissed.

This godforsaken son of a whore. Jon was tempted to try and see how many bullets he could get into Leech before either he or his goons got him for good.

It was Copperfield's voice—cold like a winter morning—that broke the tension.

"If it's money you desire then you shall have it. Take it and leave. But be assured that, should our paths ever cross again, I won't be so amenable."

A little leather pouch landed before Leech's feet, the coins inside jingling.

Copperfield had thrown it like a man might throw a dirty mutt a pitiful morsel of food. Pride swelled in Jon's chest.

For a moment, the urge to turn around and look at Copperfield became almost unbearable, to see him standing there, head held high no doubt, an image of grace and dignity. He resisted, albeit barely, and contented himself with glaring at Leech.

"You got what you wanted, now do as you've been told and leave."

Leech's face tightened with poorly suppressed anger, his eyes fixed on Copperfield now that the boy had challenged him so openly.

"What's this Jensen? You should teach that boy some manners," he hissed. "But then again, you didn't teach your own brat any manners either. From what I've heard he was quite the rude little bastard before they shot him."

It was a weak taunt and clumsy at best, but that knowledge didn't keep the rage working its way up Jon's throat at bay. His fingers tightened around the trigger of his gun.

"Not like your woman. At the end, she all but begged for it, the little slut, didn't she?"

The sound of a single gunshot ripping through the night was deafening but it wasn't Jon who had shot.

He stared at Leech, his dumbfounded expression no doubt mirrored on Jon's own face.

Then all hell broke loose.

"He shot me!" Leech screamed, more enraged than shocked. "The little punk shot me!"

Leech lackey's, who had simply stood there, stunned into silence, came back to their senses and aimed their guns, not at Jon but at Copperfield.

Jon was faster. He shot one of them, hitting him in the shoulder and he dropped his revolver with a cry. The other he hit with stock of his shotgun. Blood spurted out of his nose and splattered on Jon's face and clothes. He didn't care.

His only concern was Copperfield and Leech, who, amidst the chaos, had tried to pick his gun from the ground. His right hand was still bleeding and judging from the way it dangled limply at his side, the bullet must have torn the tendons. A good shot.

He whirled around, searching for Copperfield when pain exploded in his shoulder, hot pain that spread through his arm down to the tips of his fingers.

A quick glance at his shoulder told him what he had already suspected. Blood seeped through the torn sleeve where the bullet had grazed him. Not a deep wound, nothing life-threatening if he managed to bandage it quickly.

"Copperfield!" Jon screamed over the noise, stepping on Leech's hand as the other fumbled for his gun. "The horses!"

Leech screamed in pain but Jon didn't have the time to savor his agony, he had to get himself and Copperfield out of this mess.

Another bullet flew past him, embedding itself in a tree next to Copperfield.

The boy's eyes widened, but his grip on the small revolver he was holding remained strong and he turned to where their horses were tied to a tree.

It wouldn't take Leech and his entourage long to gather themselves back up together again and they needed to get away from here before that happened. Even with Copperfield able to handle a gun they were still outnumbered and with Jon bleeding like he was it wouldn't take long until he'd fall unconscious.

He scrambled to his feet, shotgun slung over his uninjured shoulder and followed after Copperfield, ignoring the vicious insults Leech hurled after them.

Outside the circle of light, the darkness provided at least some cover and he made it to Copperfield without a bullet embedding itself in the back of his skull. Thank god for Leech's lackeys being terrible shots.

"Quick now," he hissed and made a grab for his backpack lying abandoned on the ground. Copperfield had already shouldered his and swung himself up on his horse.

Jon did the same and with a whistle, spurred his horse. The animal was tense underneath him, agitated and unruly. He bet that Copperfield's mare wasn't much different. He had to hope that Copperfield was a better rider than Jon had initially given him credit for. If it turned out he was half as good a rider as a marksman, then they'd be fine.

There was little time for words as they rode with haste, Copperfield following after him without asking questions.

Wrycreak shouldn’t be far from here. They would be safe there, at least for the moment. And hopefully, Leech would be too busy licking his wounds to come looking after them there.

"Mr Jon?"

He heard Copperfield and the concern in his voice but couldn't will his lips to form the words he wanted to say to console him. His tongue had turned to lead inside his mouth and his vision darkened in a way that had nothing to do with the deepening of the night. 

It seemed he had lost more blood than he thought and now that the initial rush slowly subsided his body reminded him in the most gruesome of ways.

"Copperfield..." he mumbled as dark spots danced in his already limited vision. "I fear--"

 

***

 

When he came back to his senses, he felt warm, safe even, and the sight that greeted him when he opened his eyes with a flutter was a familiar one.

"We really shouldn't be making a habit of this," Jon groaned, good humor evident in his voice. "I'm too old for it."

He let his curious gaze wander through the small room, taking in his surroundings before settling on Copperfield who sat next to the bed with his hands in his lap.

The boy looked devastated. His curls were in complete disarray, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy.

"It's only because of me that you find yourself in such predicaments over and over again. I shouldn't have shot him. I should have let him take the money and leave. But I was furious, Mr Jon. The things he said..."

He trailed off when Jon raised a hand.

"Copperfield--! Copperfield, stop it. Leech would've taken the money and then shot us anyway. You did nothing wrong. On the contrary, you might have done the world a favor. It didn't look like he'd be using his trigger finger anytime soon. T'was a good shot."

Jon stretched as far as the small bed would allow it, pleased to notice that even though his body was undoubtedly sore, there was hardly any pain.

"Didn't think you had it in you though. Didn't even realize you had a gun all this time."

Copperfield lowered his gaze, seemingly bashful but Jon could see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"My temper has always been reason for chastisement, yet I never seem to  have grown completely out of it."

"I'm not chastising you. Leech deserved it. Shame about the money though." Jon sighed. "I promise we'll get it back somehow."

Copperfield's smile widened, but a touch of concern remained when he looked up and locked eyes with Jon.

"I wouldn't even concern myself with money if we weren't in such dire need of it now."

Jon could hardly argue with that and guilt overcame him. He hadn't failed to notice that the bandages around his arms were fresh, clean and hadn't been done by an amateur either.

"You paid for my treatment," he said, "and for this room. Again."

Copperfield nodded.

"How?"

"I didn't give Leech all I had but I didn't imagine one of us needing medical treatment on our way either. The rent for this room and the doctor's fee have very much drained my resources."

Sweet Copperfield. He looked guilty even now, as if paying for Jon's failures and ensuring that they had a bed for the night wasn't already more kindness than Jon deserved.

"David," Jon said, the name soft on his tongue. "You did more than enough already. I was supposed to be your guard but so far I you were the one to rescue me twice and I did little to protect you in return."

"You protected me when I was nothing but a stranger to you. You agreed to accompany me on this foolish journey. You did more than enough."

Silence settled over them, disturbed only by the crackling of the fire in the fireplace, and yearning swelt in Jon's heart.

"I'm sorry," Copperfield whispered and Jon startled.

"Sorry? What for?" he asked.

"For your loss. Your wife and...and your son?"

The memory hurt still, a dull and aching pain like a wound that had never quite healed. It would continue to hurt but Copperfield deserved an honest answer and not themoping  of an old and tired man.

Jon nodded slowly, his head feeling too heavy for his neck all of the sudden.

"I was a soldier, once, fighting a war not my own. After the war ended they were supposed to come here. We wanted to build a new life together. It--didn't come to pass. They were taken from me. Murdered and left for the scavengers to find."

His chest felt tight, his throat parched and he found he couldn't go on.

"I am so very sorry," Copperfield whispered and covered Jon's clenched hand with his own. The unexpectedly coarse skin surprised Jon and he was reminded that Copperfield hid his own horrors behind that carefree smile of his. Jon didn't pull away.

"It's alright," Copperfield said, his fingertips brushing over Jon's knuckles. "Maybe it's insolence, maybe it's consolation but I share part of your loss. My wife—she was a delicate thing, beautiful and kind, but frail and weak of health. I lost her many months ago but just to think of her fills me with a deep sorrow that I fear, I will never be able to shake off entirely."

A wife? Jon could barely keep the surprise off his face. Copperfield was young, surely too young to have been married. And yet, why would he lie about such a thing, when he had never done so before?

"It seems we have more in common than I thought," he mused. "Once again you surprise me, Copperfield."

"As long as these surprises are of a pleasant nature," Copperfield said and Jon could hear the smile in his voice.

On a whim, he moved his hand, intertwining their fingers and holding on without daring to look at Copperfield, afraid of what his reaction at such intimate familiarity might be, even though he had been the one to initiate the tender touch.

They stayed like that, for a moment or an eternity Jon could not tell, but when Copperfield pulled away, he liked to imagine that he did so with reluctance.

"You should rest, Mr Jon. There's only one bed, so I suggest you take it for now since you've been injured. I’ll make myself comfortable in front of the fireplace."

The implication that it wouldn't be the first time for Copperfield to sleep on the floor like a dog remained unsaid.

"Nonsense, Copperfield.” Jon protested. “The bed's small but we'll make do. Get in here and get some sleep yourself. It has been one hell of a day."

Facing the wall, Jon listened as Copperfield changed into his nightclothes.

A little later, he felt the bed dip beside him and heard the tell-tale rustle of another settling down next to him.

Time passed slowly and Copperfield would not come to rest, turning from one side to the other, his breathing never evening out.

"Copperfield?" Jon asked when he would not cease his struggling.

"Leech was not wrong."

It was a mere whisper but in the silence of the room Copperfield's words were deafening.

"What are you talking about?" Jon asked, still facing the wall, hands pulled up to his chest.

"I'm soft, naive when it comes to the ways of living in the West."

Jon bit his tongue. Copperfield may not had mentioned it and had spoken only of Leech but he felt guilty nonetheless. The very same words he had hauled at Copperfield not too long ago.

"Leech is a filthy bastard, you shouldn't have listened to a word he was saying."

"I know that," Copperfield said, "but even words as malicious as his hide a kernel of truth sometimes."

Jon sighed and turned around so that he would face the boy.

Copperfield looked at him from underneath his thick lashes, his neck craned, exposing the white column of his throat.

"I'm a soft creature," Copperfield insisted, his clavicles exposed as he shifted on the bed. "I crave the simple pleasure of human intimacy. Don’t you miss it? The warmth of another person? The comfort of touch?" 

His face was so close in the confined space Jon could feel his warm breath on his cheeks.

He had shared a bed with other men before. Who could afford to waste money on two rooms when one sufficed, after all? And as a soldier it hadn't been uncommon for the men to huddle together to share precious warmth. But to have Copperfield so near him, speaking of such things, sent a tingle down his spine.

Jon's throat felt raw, any words he might have had to say stuck. It didn't deter Copperfield, who inched closer when Jon stayed silent, the fabric of his nightshirt bunching up around his knees.

"Because I miss it terribly," he whispered, as if confiding in Jon, convinced that he would not share this secret with any other. "My wife was a kind soul but of frail health. I loved her dearly."

Jon didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to listen to the sad tales of his boy's late wife, tales he feared mirrored his own story far too much.

How could Jon offer any comfort like this? How could he be a proper friend when his heart hammered harder against his chest with every inch that Copperfield moved closer?

He would have begged for mercy if his voice hadn't abandoned him.

"And I miss the soft fleeting touch of a lover's kiss. Sometimes given with intent, sometimes an afterthought and given at the end of a long day, like a sweet reward. Don't you miss it?"

Copperfield's hands on his chest felt like burning irons, yet he found himself incapable of pulling away.

"Your fingertips, they’re rough."

His voice sound weak even to his own ears but Copperfield had heard him well enough. His eyes were wide with surprise and for two terrifying heartbeats, Jon feared he might have offended him.

When he finally spoke, it was with hesitation.

"As a boy, I used to work at a warehouse for some time. It was my task to clean the bottles used for storing wine. The water was hot enough to burn the skin. The scars never quite healed."

A fool, Jon was a fool. Had he not learned already that there was more to Copperfield than met the eye?

He took Copperfield's hands in his, prying them gently off his chest to lift them to his lips, kissing every fingertip in a silent apology. For all his bravado, he couldn't bring himself to meet Copperfield's eyes.

"Jon..."

He kissed a trail down Copperfield's fingers, pressing a gentle mark on each knuckle, worshipping even the space between his fingers with his mouth. A shudder went through Copperfield, Jon felt the vibrations against his lips, but he didn't pull away.

"Jon."

Not another word. If he kept calling his name like that, like the softest prayer, then surely Jon would break, unable to gather the shards of himself back together again.

"Please, look at me."

It was neither plea nor command, rather an incantation and Jon could no longer resist.

I'm sorry. The words had already formed on the tip of his tongue, ready to break forth the moment their eyes met.

They evaporated like fine mist in the wake of dawn.

Copperfield smiled, timid but with unbridled joy poorly hidden in the corners of his mouth.

"Would you not kiss me properly?" he asked, half accusatory, half playful.

How could Jon do anything but comply?

He kissed him slowly, tenderly, with an edge of shyness so unlike himself, he wondered if it was because it had been so long since he last touched another like this or because it was Copperfield he was kissing. Everything about the boy seemed to demand tenderness. From the rosy color of his cheeks to the delicate curve of his hips that Jon didn't dare touch but could surmise beneath the thin fabric of his nightshirt.

Copperfield's mouth was soft, unlike his hands and for a moment cold fury overcame Jon at the touch of these unknown men treating this gentle creature with such cruelty, but the anger passed quickly when Copperfield’s lips parted in a moan against Jon's insistent mouth.

This was not the time for vengeance. Later he would ask the names of those who had wronged Copperfield. He would commit them to memory, every single one of them and he would find the men and make them pay, eye for an eye. Tonight, though, belonged to Copperfield alone.

Emboldened by Copperfield's delighted sighs Jon curled a hand inside his hair, grabbing him by the back of his head, to pull him even closer and deepen their kiss.

With only a grunt as a warning, Jon forced Copperfield on his back and settled comfortably between his thighs. Copperfield welcomed him willingly, his legs falling open with so much as a touch to his knees, his nightshirt now bunched up so high, Jon was able to catch a glimpse of the pale inside of his thighs.

He broke their kiss when it became apparent that neither of them would last much longer without air.

When Jon looked at him, Copperfield was flushed, his face alight with a golden glow. Jon wanted to kiss him again when Copperfield's panicked voice made him halt.

"Jon, your shoulder!"

Sweet Copperfield, to worry about his injuries when Jon himself would have gladly bled to death at Copperfield's feet if it had earned him just one more kiss.

"You worry too much," he smiled and kissed him once more.

Copperfield had been right, as he so often was, even though Jon had been reluctant to admit it: He had missed touching and being touched in return, being close to another human being and sharing with them the same desires.

Copperfield didn't protest a second time.

Jon moved from his lips down his neck, biting into the tender flesh and eliciting a soft moan from Copperfield that made his cock twitch inside the confines of his breeches.

He pressed closer, his hips meeting Copperfield's and immediately he pulled his legs around Jon, effectively trapping him in between them.

The friction was maddening, even more so because he was still dressed from the waist down.

Jon thrust down, careful at first, and Copperfield moaned, his thighs twitching around Jon. It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful sound Jon had ever heard and he could feel himself dripping precum.

If he hadn't been so drunk on lust, Jon might have been embarrassed by how little it took to bring him to such a state of desperate frenzy: his erection achingly hard, tenting the front of his breeches, his hips shaking with the urge to press against Copperfield and lose himself between his thighs.

He could find completion like this, rutting against the eager body underneath him like an animal but it seemed Copperfield had different plans.

With glowing eyes, he reached between their bodies, wriggling around to create more space between them and, with a dexterity that left Jon gasping for air, unbuttoned his breeches.

It was but a short lived relief. For all his bashfulness and propriety, Copperfield didn't hesitate to grip him tight and explore the curve of Jon's cock with curious fingers.

"As a boy, I was infatuated with a fellow classmate of mine," Copperfield whispered as his fingers continued their exploration of Jon's cock. "He called me Daisy and I felt ecstatic whenever I heard my name falling from his lips. I thought I was in love back then but we've never...I've never been with a man like this."

Jon did not know if it was this whispered confession or the curious twists of Copperfield's hand that pulled a growl from him.

He grabbed Copperfield by his wrist and pulled him away from between his legs, holding onto him tightly so that he may not try and reach for him again.

"What are you saying, Copperfield?" he asked as if words had suddenly stopped having meaning and Copperfield's confession had been in a language unknown to him, ancient and long forgotten.

Under the scrutiny of his gaze, Copperfield blushed even harder, his pink skin a maddening contrast to the sheer, white fabric of his nightshirt.

"I don't lack for enthusiasm, just experience!" Copperfield was quick to placate him. "Jon, please."

He lifted his hips, pressing their groins together, their skin only separated by a piece of fabric. He was just as hard as Jon, the curve of his cock visible through the sheer nightshirt.

"You're a wicked thing. Inexperienced or not," Jon teased as he thrust down, eliciting a shuddering gasp.

Copperfield moved against him, meeting every thrust of Jon's with a roll of his hips. How eager he was, even bold where Jon had expected him to be shy and docile.

"Let me see you," Jon demanded, gripped by a sudden urge to test this eagerness, to see how far he could push Copperfield.

He hesitated for but a single heartbeat before lifting the hem of his nightshirt, pulling it up to his chest to reveal his cock.

He was smaller than Jon and circumsized, the exposed tip leaking copious amounts of precum.

Jon could have spent an eternity committing every inch of him to memory but a soft whine from Copperfield reminded him that there were more pressing matters at hand.

He spit into his palm—earning himself a disapproving glare and a scrunched up nose from Copperfield—and curled his fingers around both their cocks.

Copperfield gasped and tilted his head so that he could watch while Jon stroked them slowly, distributing spit and precum until his hand and their cocks were glistening wet.

"Will you not…” Copperfield mumbled and trailed off, leaving his question unasked. 

It was enough to make Jon halt in his movements.

"Will I not?" he urged, coaxing Copperfield with another kiss.

"I thought we would do more than this," Copperfield admitted after a brief pause, fingers playing with a loose thread.

"Oh."

Jon were lying if he'd say he wasn't tempted. To be this lovely creature's first, to claim him as his, it would have taken a better man than Jon to not at least consider it.

"No," he finally said, softening the refusal with a gentle caress, his fingers gliding over the flat plane of Copperfield's stomach. "At least not today. I don't want to hurt you. And without something to help ease the way it  _ will  _ hurt."

The disappointment on Copperfield's face was palpable. He opened his mouth, no doubt to protest but Jon beat him to it.

"’Not today’ doesn't mean never. But just this once, don't argue with me," Jon paused, smiling down at Copperfield. “And with my shoulder I don’t think I’d be up to the task anyway.”

Copperfield gave in, persuaded more by Jon's hand resuming its previous activity than by his actual words, he suspected, but Jon wasn't one to complain.

At first, he stroked them slowly, listening to Copperfield's pants and moans, making a game of trying to discover which touch made him moan the loudest, made him hold onto Jon just a little tighter. When Copperfield's moans became unhinged, the rolling of his hips desperate, Jon increased his pace.

His own pleasure had become secondary, no more than an afterthought, forgotten in the wake of Copperfield's open lust.

There was no doubt in Jon's mind that Copperfield would not last much longer. Already his cock twitched in Jon's hand with every upstroke, the line of his back a tense arch.

He wouldn't last long like this, not with how beautiful Copperfield looked, his thick hair falling around him in perfect disarray and his lashes fluttering with every twist of Jon’s hand. Already he felt the tell-tale tingle rushing down his spine.

Sheer stubbornness was what kept him from coming before the boy. Jon wanted to see him come undone underneath him.

"David," he said his name like a prayer, his breath a gentle caress across Copperfield's heated skin, "aren't you close?"

Copperfield didn't answer; the only sounds leaving his lips a cacophony of moans and gasps as his release washed over him, covering Jon's fingers and his own chest with sticky cum.

Jon watched him, never blinking, in the afterthroes of his passion, moving his hands still over both their cocks until he too came, eyes open as he spilled.

A primal part of his brain felt perverse satisfaction at seeing Copperfield marked in such way: his pale, heaving chest painted with Jon's seed as well as his own.

It seemed to hold equal fascination for Copperfield, who looked at the sticky mess with curious eyes.

"Sorry about that," Jon mumbled and moved to go and retrieve a clean cloth, only to be held back by slim fingers curling around his upper arm.

"Are you sorry for what has just transpired between us or for the mess you’ve made of me during?"

The words were playful but Jon heard the edge of fear hidden underneath.

"For the mess and the mess only," he was quick to say.

Copperfield's hand on his arm fell away, all the tension draining from his face to be replaced by deep satisfaction.

"Good," he breathed, "that's very good."

Jon felt his face grow hot. He turned away and this time Copperfield did not try to hold him back.

It was not that Jon was ashamed, nor did he regret what they had done but Copperfield's serene face and gentle smile made his chest ache. After so long a time of being alone, Jon had almost forgotten what it felt like to be with another and share with them such tender intimacies.

He took his time retrieving a wash cloth, wringing it out and wetting it for minutes, eyes staring at the wall.

Copperfield kept quiet, content with watching Jon stumble about, it seemed.

When he finally returned to the bedside Copperfield's eyes were half-closed, his body soft and pliant as Jon wiped the proof of their coupling off his skin.

"We should really get some rest," Jon said and Copperfield hummed in agreement. "If you want me to leave..."

Jon trailed off, his hand above Copperfield's chest.

He was tense, from the tips of his fingers to the back of his neck, his injured shoulder throbbing with pain. He didn't want to leave. The realization came sudden and unbidden.

Copperfield's bubbling laughter tore him from his thoughts.

"Don't be silly, Jon," he giggled and pulled Jon back into bed, pressing their naked bodies together.

His arms enveloped Jon in a warm embrace and he found himself powerless to refuse him. He gave in all too willingly, letting Copperfield surround him completely; his smell, his warmth, the sound of his carefree laughter and the steady beating of his heart underneath Jon's fingertips.

"Don't be silly," Copperfield said again and it sounded like a declaration of love.


End file.
